


the secret heart of flowers

by ninemoons42



Series: long way home [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookstore Owner Ignis Scientia, Brother-Sister Relationships, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting to Know Each Other, Injury Recovery, Inspired by Poetry, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Recovery, War Veteran Gladiolus Amicitia, War Veteran Ignis Scientia, featuring the return of Nockitty and Prompupper!, happy birthday Gladiolus Amicitia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-16 04:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14156367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: In trying to recover from the injuries to his body and to his mind, Gladio turns to the memory and the example of his mother, and prepares to grow new flowers in her garden.He’s not alone, is what he’s coming to find: he has his family, he has a puppy, and maybe he’s got a friend, too.





	the secret heart of flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Soon after I posted my [Ignis birthday fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425420) I began to take the idea of the Gladio-centric sequel very seriously -- and then it must have been fate, when I read a magazine while I was on shift and there was a gorgeous spread on the different varieties of chrysanthemums. His namesake blooms aside, I thought of Gladio coming home to a garden and caring patiently for beautiful flowers, and also cleaning up after both a very enthusiastic emotional support puppy and a snarky sweetheart of a black cat! I hope you like this, my birthday fic for our dear Shield!
> 
> ///
> 
> The poetry in this fic was written by me, before I actually started drafting the fic proper.
> 
> /// 
> 
> Nockitty references [HERE](http://www.catori.ru/cats/fler/fler85/cat_023_700.jpg) and [HERE](http://petermorwood.tumblr.com/post/169657329612/felren13-madmaudlingoes-markv5-%D0%BC%D0%BD%D0%B5-%D0%BD%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%B2%D0%B8%D1%82%D1%81%D1%8F).
> 
> Prompupper reference [HERE](https://www.petpremium.com/wp-content/uploads/ppbr/breeds/golden-sammy_profile_350x400.jpg).

He opens his eyes to a vaguely familiar smell of old wood, old ash, and to sun-warmed leather -- opens his eyes to vaguely familiar lines and shapes and he blinks, blinks, and can’t really breathe, and he forces himself to sit up and the book that he’d been trying to read last night falls into his lap and -- well, all right, so that’s what he’s been smelling all night, that’s the last thing he’d seen before finally drifting off. 

A slim volume of poetry, something he’d purchased on a whim.

Well.

Maybe not on a whim.

He still remembers the book that wasn’t his, that wasn’t Iris’s, but that had been present in his hospital room anyway: a book of long sentences and strange and rambling descriptions of things like -- things like frogs, and flightless birds, and frost-needled leaves. A book of words like lyrics to the songs that he’d heard in the back of his head, in the deepest canyons and rivers of the emotions that he still can’t name. 

He still remembers that book -- now returned to its actual owner -- and he’d bought this one, by the same writer, in the hope of understanding more about those rivers, those leaves, those secrets hidden in skies and sunsets. Swaths of space on the tall and narrow pages, in this volume: and he thinks maybe that’s on purpose, so the lines in the short poems have plenty of room to stretch out and show off.

Now he can see the rising golden flush of an early morning as it streams in through his windows, through the light curtains, and spring is something he can almost taste, here in the breeze, here in this room: the scent of rain-washed grass, the scent of new leaves, and he takes a deep breath, and another, and then he’s ready to look back at the pages, to look back at the verses.

_scent of flowers like house-dust, like soft old ashes,_  
_like a faded dream of a winter garden, ice in the corners_  
_and beneath the earth the roots slumber, and make ready to rise_  
_and they are the promises of fresh fruits, the promises of dew_

He has to smile. He has to.

And thump, thump, oncoming very small footsteps coming towards him, the shambling roll of a puppy on the move: golden fur burnished in the rising light, and the cold reassuring press of a nose against the sole of his foot.

Prompto.

His puppy, his companion.

Calm, strangely calm, this Prompto that sniffs at his ankle, and then immediately catches sight of its own tail and rolls around on the bed, on the mended counterpane, trying to catch its own wagging motions, and the only sounds that escape its tiny frame are its enthusiastic huffs, and the brush of its blunt claws against diamond-pattern stitching.

So Gladio grins, and he catches the puppy’s tail in his fingertips. Pokes the puppy’s mouth with its own tail, and he gets a wide wide doggy-grin in response and then there’s the scramble and the soft yip, the presence of small weight trying to climb his chest, and he treats Prompto to a thorough belly-rub, to a quick hard affectionate shake by the scruff of the neck, before he says, quietly, “Down.”

Yip, again, small and sharp, and he watches Prompto leap reckless and headlong from the bed and land in a ball of fluff and outstandingly floppy ears, before righting and then -- even though he hasn’t said anything -- sit.

Tail wag. Grin, and bright eyes catching the morning light.

“Good dog, you’re a damn good dog,” Gladio says, and he looks around the bedroom and catches sight of the small canister of treats, and he gets to his feet. Fishes one out and offers it to the puppy. “Come on, come here, you’re doing a good job.”

Crunching noises, far too loud for such a small dog, and Gladio laughs at last.

“That’s a good thing to hear in the morning. Almost as good as the sound of breakfast being made,” and the words stop him in his tracks, halfway between his bed and the door.

The door to his room, wide open where he’d forgotten to close it last night -- and framed in it, leather and metal and large wheels, handles and foot-rests. 

In the wheelchair: broad shoulders and kindly eyes. Fine iron-gray stubble, precisely close-shaven, clinging to the jaw and the slopes of the skull.

Lines in the corners of the eyes, and lines surrounding a worn gentle smile.

“Dad,” and Gladio leans over to kiss his father’s forehead. “Morning.”

“Morning, son,” is the quiet response. 

The wheelchair isn’t the thing he’s had to get used to, in these days and nights of arrival and adjustment and homecoming. The wheelchair is a good thing, a needed thing, a necessary thing, and with it his father’s life goes on -- modified, and still going on. 

What he’s not used to is the quiet of his father’s voice, and the fact that he now has to lean in to hear that rasp clearly, because he remembers the bellow and the boisterous songs from years ago, from the days and nights of home leave.

And he has to lean in right now as Clarus says hello to the puppy that’s trotted over to him: sitting down on its haunches and tilting its head at him, one ear dangling lower to the floor than the other. “Good morning, little one.”

Prompto yips, once, small shrill, and Clarus wags an amused finger at it -- and when that finger is waved at him in turn, Gladio rolls his eyes and pretends to parry it, as though his father has just attempted to swing a massive sword in his direction. 

“Go eat before the food gets cold. I didn’t burn the bacon this time, so -- you might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

He laughs, he really does, at the only-partway-pretend look of chagrin, and he shakes his head and says, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Better be or I’ll feed your breakfast to your dog. He looks like he needs it. You on the other hand -- ”

“Oh fuck off,” he says, and he laughs even louder when Clarus returns that one-fingered gesture, and he finally heads into the bathroom, to the sounds of a wheelchair maneuvering away.

Splash of water, cold on his cheeks, cold when he slaps the back of his own neck, and he runs his hands through his hair and makes himself face the mirror: and these, too, these are the things he can’t get used to, not quite yet. The older scar that runs down the left side of his face and the newer scars across his forehead, across his chest. Jagged suture-lines and the too-pink scar tissue, warmer than the rest of him in this moment, and he blinks away the ghost-pain in his nerves because he’s standing in a small room painted mint-green, and there are flowers painted onto the tiles running just below his eye-level: sprigs of bright green and yellow. 

He takes a deep breath, and another, and for lack of anything else to say, he mutters a scattering of lines from the book that he’s left behind on his pillows.

Click of approach, and he looks down, and the whimper that comes from his small companion seems to echo in the bathroom and its enclosed air. 

“I’m all right,” he says. “I think I’m all right.”

Twitch of an ear, and of a tail. 

He remembers meeting the puppy for the first time: small enough to be mistaken for the runt of the litter, quiet and steady even as the other puppies gamboled and grappled for attention. 

This one, the one he’d named Prompto, had simply looked up at him, panting, mouth half-open in a canine grin that’s now as familiar as his own shadow.

That same patient grin that’s directed his way, now, as he changes into street clothes and laces on a pair of running shoes.

But first, breakfast: and for the sake of being a good companion, of being good company, he feeds the dog another treat before he heads out to the dining area.

Pitchers of juice and water, beaded with condensation, off to the side. Tea, in the ornate silver service that he remembers from mornings sitting with his mother, and he smiles and pours himself a cup. Sugar cubes, he still doesn’t know where Clarus gets them, and warmed milk, and then the spread itself. Bacon and pancakes and fruit and cheese, and he piles a little bit of everything onto his plate and sits next to his father.

The bacon’s a little too toasted around the edges, and he doesn’t complain, only reaches for another serving.

“You doing anything today?” he hears Clarus ask, at length. He seems to be lingering over his tea. “Because I’ve got cards with Wes and the guys after lunch, and you’d be welcome to join us.”

“Why do you even bother playing cards,” he teases, “you have the worst luck I’ve ever seen. Worse than mine. Worse than all the people I ever fleeced in the barracks.”

“Never know when my luck will turn,” is the amused response. “Besides, you learned to cheat from me. At least you did. Iris? I’ve no idea who taught her. And she is sneaky and terrible.”

“I’m happy to let her beat the shit out of me, except when we’re playing for candy,” Gladio mutters, good-naturedly. “Speaking of which, where is she anyway?”

Blink, and a quiet laugh. “Didn’t she tell you? There’s a famous author in town. Some kind of signing event. So Iris left quite early; I was surprised she was gone before I woke up.”

“Oh, the Lunafreya event -- that’s today?” Gladio asks, and it’s not the first time he shakes his head, because he’s still scrambled from the change in time zones.

“Lunafreya, is that the author’s name? Why does it seem so familiar?”

“Let me guess, someone in your circle’s reading her books.”

He watches Clarus shrug, one-shouldered. “That might be it. I suppose I’ll have to look into those stories, so I don’t feel left out of the conversation.” Pause, and he passes the fruit when Gladio reaches for it. “And you haven’t answered my question yet.”

“Just means I can’t go to that book shop,” he says, and he chews thoughtfully, and finishes off his tea. “Not today anyway. Maybe I’ll walk to the garden center and, and look around for something.”

Mild surprise in his father’s face. “You’ll tire your companion out, walking that far. And that’s before you get to the garden center itself.”

“Not like it’s hard to carry him,” Gladio says, and he gets to his feet and starts scraping the used dishes. 

He washes up after breakfast and pours himself several glasses of juice in succession, and waves when Clarus excuses himself to get ready to head out.

The house is quiet, when he’s got it all to himself.

Tread of his own shoes, of Prompto’s paws keeping pace with him. 

Not the first circuit of the house that he’s made, since coming home: but he’s still trying to remember the smells and the little sights, the creak of the floor beneath his feet, the warm spots and the cool ones, and he stops to play a game of keep-away in the corridor between his room and Iris’s, snagging the tennis ball from the box of puppy toys he now keeps in his room -- and it’s easy to bounce the ball around and keep it out of Prompto’s reach, but he’s really here for the flap of those large ears, the enthusiastic beat of the tail on the move, the contrast between the size of the puppy and the size of the ball.

He lets Prompto keep the ball on the last pass, and the puppy runs this way and that, nose-nudging its toy into one room, and then into another -- and this allows him to walk through the house.

Maybe it was some strange kindness, some strange foresight, that had led his mother to purchase this place where all the rooms and all the spaces are on one single level, separated by wide corridors: and the nooks and crannies still bear the faint presence of her, the lingering wisps of her. Here is a vase full of graceful ferns, and here is the table that he remembers sitting under to read his first non-picture books. Here is the daybed with its makeshift basket hanging off the side, where he remembers waking up from countless childhood naps -- and Iris cooing to herself, as a baby, tucked into that same basket, wrapped in bright embroidered blankets. 

Now the basket contains newspapers and a handful of notebooks, and Gladio runs his hand over the name on the topmost item -- _Pomona_ , in gilt letters -- and he smiles, and moves on.

Finally he fetches up against the door into the small, neatly manicured garden in the back of the house, and he blinks, and he’s a little surprised, and a little sad, now that he’s once again taking a proper look at it.

Green grass, tender and bright in the late-morning light, and the acacia tree in the corner provides shade as it always has: but the tree no longer harbors colors, no longer bends its gnarled branches over a profusion of flowers. 

Twinge, somewhere below his heart: the shadow of his mother, the shadow of her smile, and the framed photograph of her that’s still in the very center of the house.

He sighs, and steps out onto the plot of green grass, and stops beneath the acacia tree. Hands in his pockets, bunched loosely into fists.

Prompto trots up to him, and sits on his left foot, and he doesn’t have to force a smile, looking at the dog and its solemn expression. 

“You know, the last conversation I can remember having with her, we were right here beneath this tree,” he says, quietly. “I was going to ship out the next morning. Get started at the military academy and, and, well, she’d been the one to encourage me, you know? I was knee-high to her and I said, I wanted to be a soldier just like Dad was, and she’d smiled at me and I didn’t understand why her eyes were so sad. Maybe, maybe she guessed she’d almost lose us over and over again. I have no idea. And now I can’t talk to her any more.”

Yip, quiet, lost in the rising breeze.

“Yeah,” he says, and he sits down, and his knee still aches a little when he does so. “Yeah.” Scritch to the top of Prompto’s head. “I liked seeing her here, watering her flowers, dealing with the weeds. She’d shovel piles of, of manure into the soil to get it ready for planting. She’d walk around every day and tell me about the insects she found among the leaves: the ones she wanted to leave alone, and the ones she’d kill, quick and quiet.

“Funny thing is, I can’t remember what she used to grow. She liked all kinds of flowers. Iris thinks it was roses. I think it might have been, um, orchids, something delicate like that. So since I can’t remember, since she can’t remember, I’m going to have to start over. I’ll grow something else.”

Short soft groan -- strange sound coming from such a small puppy. 

“Yeah, it’s not gonna be easy, but I already knew that, that’s what I learned from her,” he says, and he gets to his feet and brushes off the grass, and he goes to look for his mother’s garden tools.

///

“Hello,” he says, and he’s glad to be in this place of books, because the garden is starting to frustrate him, because he’s starting to feel a little bit confused about growing things.

Sure, he can always decide to give up on the idea of growing flowers. He’s learned that he’s got nearly the ideal conditions for an extended herb garden, except for the fact that he doesn’t do much cooking, and doesn’t know anyone who might appreciate a steady supply of kitchen herbs.

But the flowers, he says, after a moment: the flowers are the reason why he wants to work in the garden.

“I have never been very reliable myself, when it comes to the care and feeding of plants,” he hears Ignis say, as he approaches a set of shelves. Thump and shuffle of his footsteps, uneven sounds, and the quiet grunts of effort as he redistributes his stock.

Gladio leans against the counter, and keeps a lazy lookout on Prompto trying to nose into the black cat Noct’s basket, although the cat doesn’t even seem to notice that the puppy’s there.

“Went to the garden center,” he mutters, when he sees Ignis tilt his head inquisitively in his direction. “As soon as I got a good look at the flower section I thought I didn’t know a damn thing about what I wanted to do. Had to retreat.”

“Overwhelmed, perhaps?” 

“That might be it. Or just over-ambitious. As stupid as I’d been, my first day as an actual officer. You know?.” He shrugs, mostly to himself.

“Hm.” Rustle, and the tread of Ignis coming back his way, and Gladio can see he’s carrying a stack of small books in his arms. “Maybe a different approach might be helpful.”

“What kind of different?”

He follows the beckoning tilt of Ignis’s shoulder to the counter, where the small books are spread out and -- he can see the vivid colors of flowers on each cover. Each book is devoted to one specific type of flower: roses, anemones, lilies, and on and on. Orchids, and pansies, and daisies, and -- 

“Oh, here’s your sister’s namesake,” and Ignis separates the book on irises, sets it next to the till. “I don’t know that I have yours.”

Gladio laughs, a little. “People kept asking about that, you know, all the way from boot camp. Every time I met someone for the first time. They all asked me the same question. Why was I named for a flower, you know, like they were going, of all the things. I dunno, I never got an answer, probably because it never occurred to me to ask. Sword-lilies, and why not? If my parents liked them well enough, then -- ”

“Liked them enough even though they are uncommon here,” is Ignis’s hum of a reply. “Uncommon, in the sense of, perhaps there isn’t enough interest to warrant the publication of their own little book in this series.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. If it’s not there, it’s not there, and I don’t care about it. I don’t care that there isn’t a book. But why did you bring these over in the first place?”

Soft laugh. “I only thought I’d give you the choice. See, can you tell me which flowers look interesting to you, personally? Don’t think about the garden that you do have. Just tell me which ones you might like best.”

He thinks about it for a few minutes, enough that Ignis smiles and walks toward the cash register and deals with customers paying for their purchases, and in the end he stacks all the other books together, leaving out the ones for roses, lavender, chrysanthemums, and dahlias.

“Interesting,” he hears Ignis say, once they can talk again. “I would have chosen lavender myself, were I to try my hand at gardening.”

“Maybe you should,” and Gladio picks up the book, and leafs through it at random. “Don’t know what you or I would do with the, the oils, though. They’re useful, is all I know. But I won’t have enough garden space to grow a lot of those flowers.”

“It’s a pity. Shall we set it aside then? That leaves you with three choices.”

“No,” and now Gladio is frowning at the back of the book on dahlias. “I’ve got two left. Dahlias are not recommended for these climates, says so right here.”

“Oh. Then it’s roses and chrysanthemums, and -- yes?” 

But it’s the cat that has claimed Ignis’s attention, so Gladio leaves him to it and opens the books on chrysanthemums and on roses.

The books contain short histories, tips for propagation, and warnings on various diseases and pests, and there’s entirely twice as much information on roses as there is on chrysanthemums: he even says so, when Ignis comes back with a mug of coffee to share. “You ever noticed that the book on roses has smaller print than the one on chrysanthemums? Same number of pages though.”

“I’ve not had the chance to look, before today: but I’m guessing there might be a lot of, hmm, dos and don’ts when it comes to roses.”

“And that’s daunting. So that means it’s chrysanthemums,” Gladio says, and takes a sip from the mug. “Let me see if you have any more books on this.”

“And for my part, I should see if there are any books I could order for you, in order for you to have more information on those flowers.” Quiet smile. “This has been an interesting discussion, I would say.”

“It was,” Gladio says. “If you wanna go again, you know where to find me.”

“Or likely you will be in here to complain about your flowers,” he hears Ignis say, teasing lilt in the words and the smile that he hides in the coffee.

Nothing for it but to laugh.

/// 

It hits him, sudden and fierce and not entirely unexpected, while he’s running through his afternoon exercises: he’s halfway through the third set of push-ups and he’s thinking about adding a fourth set, when he thinks he hears the quiet puff of a suppressed firearm going off, when he thinks he smells the sap-smoke of trees catching fire, and suddenly he’s not where he thinks he is, he’s not home and he’s not safe -- 

No, no, no, this isn’t real, this isn’t real! He rages and he clenches his fists, he goes into a combat-ready crouch, and he looks around for the rest of his group and -- there’s no one else here, and he’s not even armed, and he’s only got himself and all he can see is the dense near-dark of the trees surrounding him, the ominous hiss of fire coming closer and the crashing impacts of boots on the move, boots belonging to his enemies, the insurgents who’ve already killed three of the soldiers in his unit -- 

Cover, cover, he’s got to find some kind of cover -- what good will it do him to get into the trees, when that’s just asking to be someone’s target, might as well paint a bull’s-eye on himself and save everyone else the trouble -- but the tree’s the only place he can find some kind of concealment and he’s not looking forward to having to resort to melee tactics, but they’re all he’s got, and there’s a pain in his jaw that doubles and redoubles and he can’t breathe properly, can’t get his head on straight, and -- 

High-pitched sounds moving his way, and he doesn’t understand what those sounds could mean, he doesn’t understand what could be producing those sounds -- his mind only interprets those sounds as a threat and he, he catches his breath, he has to strike, he has to get ready to lash out and -- 

Something smacks into his chest, small hard surprising impact, and it doesn’t knock him over but it does force him to look down.

Floppy ears. Teeth bared in a half-snarl. Soft fur?

“Arf arf arf!”

Barking?

Gladio blinks, and catches his breath in one hard shocked heave, and the world spins back to -- the garden in the back of the house, the one-storey house where he’d spent, where he’s spending, his days as a civilian. Acacia tree arching over him, its graceful old branches swaying in the breeze, and it’s the only tree he can find, and he’s curled into a tense ball in its gnarled and spreading roots.

And on his chest, barking deep and full-throated and startling, is Prompto.

The puppy, his puppy, barking, and that sound is nowhere near similar to the little yips he normally hears, and it’s a shock: the sounds and the puppy both, and its surprising weight heavy on his chest, the entirety of it sprawled on him, applying warmth and pressure.

“Prompto,” he says. “You, you can stop barking now. I can hear you. ’M here.”

One more loud bark, and then -- the puppy’s butting in under his chin, and whining piteously, tail in a rigid line and not at all moving because it’s still pressed flat to his chest, like anchor and weight.

He closes his eyes, and even as he tells himself not to cry -- he can feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and he doesn’t know what to do or to say.

He fumbles for his phone, and hits a speed-dial, and it rings on the other end for a minute.

Rush of moving wind, and: “Gladio.”

“Dad,” he says, and that’s all he can get out.

Muffled conversation, and he thinks he hears a gruff voice say, “Hang the speed limits!”

“Sorry,” he mutters into the phone.

“No. No, son, you’ve nothing to apologize for. I’ll be there in a moment.”

His father hangs up, and Gladio mutters, “Paws off.”

Prompto yips at him, concerned -- and jumps away, and he immediately misses the dog’s small weight on him, the dog’s small comfort.

So he just says, “Thanks,” and he runs his hand over Prompto’s head and tries to calm down. Tries to breathe normally.

“Gladio,” his father says: that voice in person, not on the other end of a phone call.

And he can make himself get to his feet and walk toward the door into the house: he’s shaky, he can’t see for the weight of the tears, he can’t think for the weight of the memories, and he sinks to his knees and leans his head against one of the armrests of Clarus’s wheelchair.

Hand in his hair, real and grounding. “Gladio. It’s going to be all right.”

“Doesn’t feel like it right now,” he makes himself say. “I, I don’t even know why. I don’t even know what set me off. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No, son, no. Unfortunately it really doesn’t make sense. Not in the heat of the moment anyway.”

“I hate it, dad. I hate this. Everything in my head hurts.”

He hears Clarus make a small, distressed noise. “And I wish I could lie to you, and tell you things will get better.”

“I couldn’t even believe that, right now. Not even from you.”

“And I do know that feeling. At least I can give you that. I know how you feel, and I am here for you, no matter how hard or how long it hurts.”

“Fuck,” Gladio mutters.

///

He doesn’t normally notice the cold in the hospital and its corridors that stink of industrial-strength bleach, but he does offer the jacket off his back to Iris, where she’s sitting curled up and miserable next to him on the hard bench.

“Come on,” he mutters, when she shakes her head. “I don’t want to see you uncomfortable like this.”

“You shouldn’t give up your own comforts for me, not if it’s not really necessary,” she says, quiet and determined, though her teeth are actually chattering a little.

“Did you forget that was what I was doing, when I was a soldier? Gave up lots of things for, for everyone else.”

“And you’re not a soldier right now. I mean, you have to care for yourself.”

“I’m here because I don’t always know how to do that,” he says.

For that he gets a whimper, and her hand cold and small and hard around his.

At his feet Prompto groans, a little, and shifts. Golden fur and small frame all but drowning in a black-mesh vest. Fluorescent-yellow letters that say _Working Dog, Please Do Not Pet Me_.

Gladio looks around the corridor. Thinks he might recognize the woman emerging from one of the other doors. Braids wound in black ribbon, hunch in her shoulders that belies the brisk pace of her as she marches to the elevators. 

Maybe he’s seen her on a base, somewhere.

He doesn’t even know why he’d assumed she might have been a soldier like him.

The door on Iris’s other side clicks open, and out steps a young man in a neat shirt and carefully knotted tie. Silver-gray hair cropped short. “Amicitia.”

Gladio gets to his feet and takes a deep breath, and places his hand on Iris’s head. 

Follows the young man into the psychiatrist’s office.

And she’s on the phone, glasses pushed up into her wild dark hair. As he approaches, she covers the mouthpiece with her hand and whispers, “Be right with you.”

Motions to the bowl of doggy treats on her desk, individually wrapped for convenience, and he takes a moment to peer at the label on the one he picks up, before tearing into the packet and offering it to Prompto.

He takes a moment to listen to the crunch of the treat between the puppy’s teeth, and it’s an oddly normal sound, an oddly soothing one.

“Hey. Sorry about that. It’s a little bit busy today,” the psychiatrist says.

“There’s a lot of us you need to take care of, Doc,” he says.

“It is what it is,” she says, and she spreads her hands. “We weren’t due for another meeting for, oh, what was it. Ten days? Something like that?”

“Something like that. But I had an attack yesterday,” he says, quietly. 

“Do you feel comfortable telling me about it?”

He almost laughs. “I shouldn’t. Not because I’m gonna be all, macho and big manly man and all that. But because of what I said, and what you said. What is it that you do, Doc, when you need to unload everything that you hear from your patients? I mean, I sort of don’t want to add to that shit you’re already carrying around.”

“I was not expecting you to be a gallant about it,” she says, after a moment’s silence. “I don’t usually hear that kind of talk from my patients, and that’s not their fault, you know, if they’re pouring literally all of their energies into just surviving. Day in and day out, surviving -- that’s a drain, you know, on limited resources to begin with?”

“Yeah,” and he nods, understanding. 

“And in case you haven’t noticed, allowing people to deal with their mental and psychological stresses is kind of what I’m being paid to do in the first place. So you’re not adding to my problems. It is in fact a problem if you _don’t_ talk to me, or to some other counselor, because you have issues that we might be able to deal with, and if we can’t, then that’s what haunts us, that’s what keeps us up at night. We want to help if we can. And you, sir, you are someone we know we can help.”

“Okay,” he says, frowning. 

“If it makes you feel better, though, take a look at that,” she says, and she indicates the back of her office door.

Gladio’s never thought to look at that part of her office before, and it takes him a moment to understand what he’s looking at. “Bow?”

She laughs, and Prompto’s ears prick up for a moment, before the puppy falls back into its doze on the floor.

“Yup. Recurve bow if you want to get really specific. I’ve actually recommended it to some of my other patients. It’s a martial art in and of itself, and also a kind of meditation. If you want to try it, I can give you the number of my archery club.”

“Nah, not me,” he says, after a moment. “I’m done with weapons. I know someone who might be interested, though.”

“Fair enough. You done delaying now?” And she’s careful and steely and determined, and her tone makes him sit up and pay attention, in a good way.

So he takes a deep breath, and talks about his flashback.

She nods, at the end, and offers him another doggy treat, nodding at Prompto as she does so. “You’ve done a good job with your puppy, I’d think -- and because you’ve done a good job with him, he’s ready to do his job for you. Did it help? The DPT?”

He almost grins. “Yes, except: puppy. I have a puppy. And the puppy’s small, so there isn’t a lot of pressure to be applied there.”

“Ha, you’re funny! You have to wait for him to grow. And you have to feed him, and give him the exercise he needs. Give him the care and attention he needs. He’ll be the heavyweight you need in no time.”

So he unwraps the treat and dangles it in front of Prompto, who lunges for it, and falls right flat onto the floor -- flat and chewing loudly, leaving crumbs on the tiles.

“Leave it, I don’t care about the mess,” the psychiatrist laughs. “Just as long as I know you’re both trying to cope in healthy ways. Have you considered my other suggestion? There’s a couple of veterans’ affairs groups who meet here. Leads on quite nicely, you know, from what we were just talking about. I cope. So do you -- I mean, so should you. And with a group like that you don’t have to worry about carrying others’ burdens for them, or them piling burdens on to you. With a group like that you might be able to learn how to carry your own burdens, and share some of them. It’s good that you have that understanding, but -- don’t turn it into a setback, or a wall to hide behind.”

She’s calm and serious at the end, and he thinks about her words, and thinks about -- 

Thinks about his father, and his sister.

Thinks about an offer that had been extended to him, kindness and the same sharp weighted understanding, like barbs catching beneath his heart.

When he takes his leave, he says, “Thanks, Doc. You know, for kicking my ass.”

“I just said, didn’t I? That’s what we do. If it helps, it helps.” 

“Yeah.”

Out into the cold corridor again: he tucks Prompto under one arm and Iris under the other. “Ice cream?”

“Why are you thinking about that when it’s so cold in here?” she complains.

“Because it’s getting warmer out there. Getting on to spring. I’m buying.”

“Damn well you’d better, scaring me and dad like that. And you being so scared. I hate that idea so much, Gladio, you have to know that, right? I hate the thought of you being scared. Because, because you’re my brother, and you’ve been so good and kind to me, to us, all this time.”

“Even when I was gone?”

“Even when you were gone.” 

He hears the telltale hitch in her breath, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Thanks, and not done yet,” she says. “What I was trying to say is, you’ve been good to me, good to us, and we sort of rely on you to give us strength, and it’s really hard, realizing you’re not always strong.”

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Gotta do better.”

“No! That’s not it!” She pulls away and all but growls at him, leaning forward, empty hands splayed out. “I mean, we were doing something wrong, we were thinking you’d just keep on going on and you would, you would, you’d be strong for us until it burns you, until it tears you to pieces -- and then where would we be? Then we’d be without you! So, so, I wanted to say I’m sorry, I wanted to say I want to do better too, I want to be able to be strong so I can help carry you. You and dad at the same time if I have to.”

Out on the sidewalk, now, and he doffs his jacket, and puts Prompto down. Watches as the puppy chases its tail. 

And he smiles, and says, “You done?”

Pout, pulling Iris’s mouth downwards. “Yeah.”

“Okay, so, well, something I learned in there,” he says, and he hooks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the hospital and the psychiatrist’s office. “Not just today. She’s been trying to teach me. I just didn’t know how to understand what she was trying to say.”

“Gladio?”

He takes her hand in his. Squeezes, affectionately. “Nothing wrong with being strong -- if you can be, for yourself or for others, that’s good. And nothing wrong with -- not being strong either. Sometimes you just can’t be strong. Sometimes you can’t carry others because they have to carry themselves. So, so maybe that’s what we just need to do. Just try to help each other. Whether we can do it or not, be strong I mean.” He chuckles, because he’s never been one for speeches. “I think that’s what it was.”

Blink, blink: he watches his sister, and then she’s laughing, too. “This the long way of you saying, you depend on us, and -- on him?” 

And she’s tilting her chin in the direction of Prompto, crumbs still caught in fur.

He laughs, and turns in the direction of the nearest ice cream shop, and says, “Yeah, of course I do. Depend on you, I mean. Wouldn’t be me otherwise.”

///

Three days into getting his mother’s garden ready for planting chrysanthemums, and he’s grateful for the labor, grateful for the sleep that he drops into at the end of the day, straight into rest like a rock dropped into deep waters.

His only regret is the fertilizer, but the resource person at the garden center had recommended chicken manure, and he does want to do his best by the long-neglected soil, so he grins it and bears it and it’s not until after he’s washed his hands three times that he notices that he’s got a visitor.

Something very familiar about the long slinking form of black fur and sleek muscle, and outsized ears: and the final confirmation is Prompto bounding out of the house, bounding from the shelter of the daybed, and greeting the newcomer with a madly wagging tail and a huge puppy-grin. 

“Noct,” Gladio says, as the cat twitches its tail from side to side: and Prompto’s trying to catch the tip of that tail, trying and failing every single time. “What are you doing here?”

Slow blink of those blue eyes, too knowing, he thinks.

So he washes his hands again, and picks up his smartphone where he’s been charging it, and dials the number for the book shop. 

Ignis picks up on the third ring. “Hello, Scientia speaking.”

He sounds a little worried.

“Gladio here,” he says. “You’re missing a cat, aren’t you.”

“I am, yes, how did you know?”

“Because I’m looking at your missing cat right now. I don’t know how he managed to get here. But he’s here, and he’s being a shit to my dog, so what do you want me to do with him?”

Relief, in the gusty sigh that he hears. “I am sorry for that cat causing so much trouble.”

“He’s not troubling me, like actual me. I just want to make sure my dog survives,” he says, chuckling a little. 

“So do I,” Ignis says. “Would you mind terribly if I came over to fetch Noct at the end of my day?”

He thinks about it, and about the suggestions he’s received from his psychiatrist, and he says, slow and careful, “Better idea.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Dinner? If that’s a thing you’re okay with. We’ll find a place that doesn’t mind dogs or cats. I’m okay with cutting my day short.”

Pause. Pause. He’s on the verge of taking back his offer, and on the verge of burying his disappointment -- and why is he feeling this way anyway? -- when there’s a quiet cough on the other end of the line.

“I suppose I shouldn’t mind cutting my day short, either, since I’ve been run off my feet,” he hears Ignis say. “Everything’s been a whirlwind since the articles on Lunafreya’s event were printed.”

“You need any help?”

“I do have help, in fact; Iris has been spending some of her afternoons with me, and I also have a friend who’s been very enthusiastic about, about things like shelving books,” and Ignis is laughing, and the sound makes Gladio smile, too, a little. “And I would have been all right with letting them close the shop tonight. But I think I’ll give them the night off, too. So -- what time would be best for you?”

“That’s not up to me,” he says, and before he can go any further there’s a loud and triumphant _meow_ , and he whips around to see -- “Ignis.”

“Yes, Gladio?”

“Don’t hang up, give me a second, here.”

He switches to the camera on his phone and takes a step closer, and Noct turns that feline smirk on him.

“Get off my dog,” he says, half-heartedly, and then he sends the picture to Ignis, and switches back to the call. “I just sent you something.”

“Whatever is my cat doing? Ah,” and Gladio hears the chime, and a series of rustling sounds, and: “I feel like I should apologize for Noct’s behavior, but -- honestly, he treats me that way, too.”

“I bet,” and then Gladio laughs as he watches Prompto try to wriggle out from underneath that shape of black fur. “What did he even do to you, silly cat, he’s just trying to make friends.”

“Noct,” he hears Ignis sigh, on the other end of the call. “Please do not torment Prompto, for heaven’s sake.”

“That’s not gonna work and you know it. Anyway, I’ll deliver this hooligan to you in, well, seven-thirty all right by you? We’ll swing by the shop.”

“That will be fine. I will see you later.”

He goes to pry Noct off the puppy -- and the cat goes liquid-boneless in his arms, and he chuckles some more, and says, “You’re really trying to be the most difficult little shit in the world right now, aren’t you?” 

No answer, and he’s not expecting any.

He winds up dropping Noct into the basket attached to the daybed, and he tells Prompto to stay near the roots of the acacia tree, and he finishes spreading the manure all around, half the garden now turned into heaps of soil, loose and aerated and smelly, and he calls it a day: he’s going to have to be extra careful, scrubbing his exertions from his skin.

“How the hell am I going to get you from one place to another, anyway,” he says, as he buttons up his shirt, dark purple patterned in narrow gray arrowheads, and returns Noct’s cool regard.

Prompto’s all but hopping around in vest and harness, next to his booted feet.

In the end he says, “Come on, time for you to go home, your person’s probably missing you too,” and he watches Noct climb neatly out of the basket, and walk alongside him at a stately parade of a pace.

“Weird,” he says, but he thinks he’s starting to get fond of the cat already.

Ten blocks is a long way to walk, however, and he winds up carrying Prompto for the last two, and it’s a relief to see the shape of Ignis outside the door of his shop, the glint of keys twirled in the air. 

“Noct,” is the first word out of Ignis’s mouth, and he’s perfectly still as the cat scales him, and settles purring around his shoulders, like a scarf with a long tail and huge ears and blue eyes. “You gave me such a fright, and on top of that, you’ve been terrorizing that puppy. What did he ever do to you, except like you? You are a rascal and a wretch.”

“He knows you’re lying with every word, you know that, right?” Gladio chuckles, and watches as Ignis continues to stroke down the length of Noct’s tail. 

Ignis laughs, quietly. “Yes. And I have been informed by your sister that I do not become the owner of a cat. The cat becomes the owner of me.”

“Something like it,” and he holds up a hand, and texts Iris. 

Who rings his phone in the next instant, and says, “Oh leave me alone, go get dinner with Ignis!”

“All right, all right, bossy,” he laughs, and hangs up. Turns back to Ignis. “Where are we going, then?”

“How do you feel about noodles? There’s a place around the corner, and we can sit out in the open air with our companions.”

“Sounds good.”

It’s easy to keep pace with Ignis: he’s not quite marching, but he’s not taking his time, either, and even with the quiet between them the world feels like it’s just turning in its natural pace, in its natural paths, and he doesn’t feel any kind of strain at all.

The women at the counter laugh at their four-legged companions, the more so when he lets Prompto down to the floor and the puppy immediately rolls over onto its back and grins, wide and shameless and disarming, and ending up with a little bowl of its own.

“You’re gonna get fat,” Gladio teases, “charming everyone like that. No more carrying you around. Even the trainer tells me you gotta exercise.”

Happy affirmative yip, in response.

And Ignis smiles and smiles, but he’s still a little frayed around the edges: his collars are askew and his hair is drooping past his ears, into his eyes. 

When the food comes, Gladio takes two dumplings and pushes all the rest towards him. “You look like you need a good square meal or two yourself.”

“I -- I am hungry,” and he looks surprised to admit it.

“Good, so am I, so let’s just eat.”

Noodles in a thick broth, rich and robust and meaty, and he winds up asking for extra noodles, and Ignis does so as well, with a deep blush rising on his cheeks.

“I take it you’re forging on ahead with your garden plans,” Ignis says, as they’re finishing off their second plate of dumplings. “Since I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you in the shop as of late.”

“The garden hasn’t really been a garden for a long time,” he says, quietly. “We just let it go to grass and weeds after my mother died. So getting it back into shape’s not easy.”

“Oh, forgive me. If it’s a sensitive topic. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“It’s not sensitive, I already said. It’s just something Iris and I don’t really talk about,” he says. “I like to think we’ve sort of scabbed over, where we’re still missing her.”

“I see.”

“She spent all her days in the garden, so I did, when I was a kid, and Iris did, for the first couple of years. I think there’re pictures of us wearing flower crowns, which makes me think she might have tried to teach me how to make them.”

Quiet smile. “I can imagine.”

“Makes me wonder what she knew about chrysanthemums. I wish I could still ask her.”

“That reminds me,” Ignis says, and he reaches into his pocket, and Gladio’s half-expecting him to pull out a book -- but he produces his smartphone, instead. “A few things that I thought I should probably pass on to you. Your phone, please?”

Notification on the screen: _File Transfer: Accept/Reject?_

He swipes to _Accept_. “What is this?”

“Just an old book or two, that had something to do with keeping a garden,” Ignis says. “I asked some bookseller friends for recommendations, and there were one or two who were happy enough to send me what they had. The books are out of print now, and there’s no other way of getting them: just these digitized copies. I hope you’ll find them useful.”

He blinks, and stares, and feels the heat rush to his face. “You -- you didn’t have to. Thank you.”

“I was happy to do it.”

“I did learn something, you know, at the garden center,” he says, as they walk after dinner. “From when I went to ask about chrysanthemums.”

He’s following the slow pace that Ignis is setting, and he’s full of noodles and soup and dumplings.

He looks back after a moment, and has to smile, at Prompto and Noct walking alongside. No tricks or teasing or play between them, just the occasional nudge of nose to ear, careful brushing touches. 

“Tell me,” he hears Ignis say.

“I guess you’d only be able to do this with, what, organically grown stuff? No artificial chemicals and things like that? Because people used to dry the flowers, the entire heads, and then drink them in hot water. Like it’s supposed to be tea. Or medicine. The people at the garden center also told me about brewing chrysanthemum wine, but I’m not sure I’d be into that.” 

“Nor I. On the other hand, I’d love to try the infusion, the hot drink that you mentioned. Was there a specific occasion for those drinks? Or could you drink them all year round?”

“I think they mentioned something like a festival. I’ll look into it. And I can bring you some chrysanthemums.” He grins. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Don’t even know if the plantings will take.”

“I would like to hope that they will. And I would like that very much, if you brought chrysanthemums to the shop. Speaking of which, did they tell you about what the chrysanthemum means? What it stands for?”

He blinks. “I don’t get you.”

“Flower language,” he hears Ignis say. “It seems that you picked a flower of many meanings.”

“No idea,” he says, as carefully as he can, because he doesn’t want to offend him, because he doesn’t want to put him off. “I mean. Like roses for love, right? So chrysanthemums are for what?”

“Nobility,” is the immediate answer. “And longevity. Red chrysanthemums mean passion, and yellow ones mean slighted love. I would not be surprised if every color had a meaning.”

He turns it over in his mind. “And chrysanthemums can grow in practically any color, I got that. I’m going to have to learn about that, too, huh,” he says, quietly. “Don’t want to send the wrong messages with my garden. Assuming it even grows.”

He’s expecting Ignis to smile, and turn away politely.

He’s not expecting Ignis to say, “I have faith in you, you know.”

The words make his ears go warm, and he looks away, because he doesn’t know what to say, and it’s only when he doesn’t recognize the streets they’re walking that he turns back in the other man’s direction. “Sorry. Where are we?”

“Oh. That’s where I live,” and he follows the line of Ignis’s arm, towards a two-storey brownstone halfway down the block. “I have the downstairs flat.”

“Good to know,” and somehow he knows what to do, and he throws a grin at Ignis.

On the stoop, he says, “I’d like to do this again.”

“Certainly,” and he likes that about Ignis, that he doesn’t hesitate when he makes decisions. “I would like to see you again, and not just when you’re buying books.”

“Right, the garden, I’m going to be busy with that for a bit,” he says. “But again. If the flowers take, maybe you can drop by on your lunch hour. I’d be happy to show the garden off.”

That smile grows brighter. “Then I wish you luck, and good days for your garden. And for you, too.”

“Ignis,” he says, after a moment.

“Yes?”

“What do you do on your bad days?”

Rueful chuckle, in response. “Hope there’s someone around to catch me.”

“The cat counts, right?”

“He does.”

Noct lets out a loud _meow_.

“He knows we’re talking about him,” he says. 

And: “Call me, if you feel you’re up to it.”

Ignis’s hand on his shoulder, gentle and real. “And please know that what I said to you on our first meeting still holds. If the garden grows, and if it doesn’t: if it will help you to speak to someone who might hope to understand what you’re growing through, please know you are always welcome.”

He raises an eyebrow, and doesn’t move away from the contact. Thinks about the past few days. “And if I told you the same thing? Like, come by, when the books aren’t any help, when the cat’s running around without you. I’ll tell you where I live and if you show up on the doorstep you can come straight in.”

“I believe we’ve a deal.”

He doesn’t shake Ignis’s hand, this time: he takes the hand on his shoulder, and holds it carefully in both of his own, just for a moment.

And he remembers the poetry, and he says it, here and now, for no real reason other than that he can:

_scent of flowers like house-dust, like soft old ashes,_  
_like a faded dream of a winter garden, ice in the corners_  
_and beneath the earth the roots slumber, and make ready to rise_  
_and they are the promises of fresh fruits, the promises of dew_

“That is lovely,” Ignis says. 

“Same writer as, as the book you lent Iris. The book you lent me.”

“Yes, I thought it sounded familiar.” Small sweet smile. “I’ll remember it. Thank you.”

Gladio lets him go, reluctantly. “See you, then.”

“I’ll be seeing you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fittingly for a flower that’s been cultivated nearly from the very beginning of human history, the chrysanthemum has acquired many, many meanings and poetic images. I’m glad I picked the chrysanthemum for Gladio here in this story because a whole bunch of its meanings can be applied to him in this particular AU.
> 
> In the West, chrysanthemums can stand for:  
> \- support from loved ones  
> \- rest and recovery after a trial / challenge  
> \- loyalty and devotion  
> \- respect and honor
> 
> And in the East, chrysanthemums can stand for:  
> \- happiness, including good health  
> \- longevity and good luck in the home
> 
> The colors of chrysanthemums also have symbolic meanings, as Ignis mentions in the fic.  
> \- Red chrysanthemums mean love and passion.  
> \- Yellow chrysanthemums mean sorrow and neglected love.  
> \- White chrysanthemums can mean loyalty and honesty; but they are also a symbol of death.  
> \- Violet chrysanthemums can be a shorthand for “Get well soon.”
> 
> ///
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


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